Derek Blasberg’s Paris Fashion Week Diary

The ever-ballooning spectacle is a typical topic of conversation at Fashion Weeks. The scene outside a fashion-show venue—with slews of (self-appointed?) street-style stars jockeying for a (pre-meditated?) nonchalant photograph by a horde of street-style photographers—has reached official mob-scene proportions. In the past few seasons, we’ve seen it all get more exaggerated: social-media followings, show venues, parties. So, it was a pleasant surprise at this season’s Paris Fashion Week to be able to balance the expected spectacle moments with more stolen, intimate ones. An example: my first night in Paris, when, fresh off a flight from L.A., I attended a civilized and casual dinner party at the home of Chloé’s Clare Waight Keller. How nice to sit on her sofa and have a chat before, a few hours later, I was crammed into a sweaty dance party for Balmain’s Olivier Rousteing and his #balmainarmy cadets, Kendall Jenner, Lily Donaldson, Joan Smalls, and Doutzen Kroes.

Lauren Santo Domingo’s well-appointed house in Paris’s Seventh Arrondissement played host to several intimate affairs during the week. There were a couple of luncheons, but her biggest coup was a pre-party buffet dinner in anticipation of Vogue Paris’s 95th-anniversary fête. How clever to line one’s stomach with Chinese takeout before drowning it in spirits? Especially since, in my case, stamina was something I needed to keep in mind this season: I wanted to stay in top form for a signing for my new book, Harper’s Bazaar: Models, at Colette (and thanks to Gigi, Kendall, Doutzen, and Devon for turning out and posing for a million selfies in my honor) and to test my endurance at Nike’s 10K run on a sunny Sunday morning. Though, to be honest, had I not made plans for Jessica Hart and Alexandre Arnault to meet at my house for the race, I probably would have bailed.

The rest of my #PFW stops were typical fare: I made it to Caviar Kaspia, considered the Fashion Week canteen by most editors, only once this trip, and that was to celebrate the 10th anniversary of Roksanda Ilincic’s collection. Karl Lagerfeld indulged me and a few editors with a preview of his Chanel collection a few days before the show, and his muse, Lady Amanda Harlech, gave me a test-drive on the new luggage-inspired handbags. I ordered the crab salad at the Hotel Costes and complained when it took forever to get the bill. I indulged in croissants with reckless abandon. Now that I look back at my pictures, though, I see I wasn’t a homebody by any stretch. Richie Akiva, the New York club promoter turned nightlife mogul, just happened to have a birthday on the Saturday of Fashion Week. I squeezed into a V.I.P. area where all eyes (but not cell-phone cameras, courtesy of a few eagle-eyed bodyguards) were on Rihanna.

Something else beyond the realm of fashion happened this week, too. Diana Widmaier-Picasso’s debuted an exhibition devoted to her grandfather at the Grand Palais. Entitled “Picasso Mania,” it’s a tribute to both Pablo Picasso and his lasting influence beyond his 1973 death. Azzedine Alaïa hosted a dinner at his house (imagine my glee when an invitation to Chez Alaïa arrived) for Diana and her friends, including artists such as Jeff Koons, whose work appeared in the exhibition. Following the second (of four!) courses, a flamenco dancer took the stage and regaled us not only with her dancing, but also her traditional costume, which had the sort of corseting that inspired a few shows this week and even Madonna’s recent Rebel Heart tour. It was a reminder that this industry is much more than merely a photo op outside a fashion show.

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